A faint colour warmed the face that had lost much of its brownness, the dawn of a smile broke in the earnest eyes he had last seen raised to his in the moonlight in the shadowy road beneath the oleanders--a hint of a smile which failed to reach her lips. "I thought you had forgotten," Brenda said. He remembered that for a time he had forgotten. It seemed incredible now, with the small warm hand in his, and the sense of comradeship which the nearness of her, the friendly light in her eyes, conveyed, that ever it had been a matter of indifference to him whether he saw her again. There was not a shadow of doubt as to his pleasure at the moment. She drew her hand away. "The management may be watching me," she said. "Oh bother! There is always some one watching you," he returned. "No matter! We will have our talk out where no one can watch us save the stars. It's jolly that you're here... I'm not going to lose sight of you again." He arranged to meet her that evening and parted from her feeling extraordinarily dated. He looked back when he had paid his score and was passing out to smile across the room at her. Then he pushed the swing door and emerged upon the pavement to discover his late companions, rather silent and faintly displeased, waiting by the kerb for him. "Well, we can never go in there again!" Rosie said, in tones charged with inner meaning. It was so obvious that she wanted him to inquire the reason for this taboo that he did not ask it; instead he remarked cheerfully: "That's the biggest surprise I've had--and about the pleasantest. I never expected to run across Miss Upton like that." "We didn't imagine you knew her," May said. "When she served us I saw who it was, but of course one couldn't speak to her. She ought not to stay in Cape Town." "Why not?" he asked. "Oh! there's nothing exactly against her--except of course, the connexion. Her father embezzled money and went to prison. He was in dad's firm. We knew her quite well at one time. But it was an awful disgrace; one couldn't go on knowing them. You must acknowledge it is impossible for us. Mother wouldn't like us to talk to her." "No," he said; "I don't suppose she would." "You didn't know about her father, of course," Rosie said. "Oh! yes, I did. She told me herself--not the details, but the bald facts." "Really! I'm surprised at that. A man doesn't need to be so particular, perhaps; but it wouldn't do for us to be seen talking to her." "My friendship dates since her misfortunes," he explained. "I can't believe that I could have respected her more had I known her in her prosperous days. The fact that her father was imprisoned, apart from my sympathy with her on that account, doesn't affect me. I can't stay now, or I could talk to you for an hour on the immorality of injustice. I'll come out to your place some day, and we'll take it for a subject for debate."